Cataloochee by Wayne Caldwell

Author:Wayne Caldwell [Caldwell, Wayne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-51691-6
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2007-09-01T04:00:00+00:00

SQUIRREL SKULL

zra departed early the next morning, bound for the courthouse in Waynesville. He first stopped at the store to let Ernest Parham, the current postmaster and storekeeper, know he'd outfoxed that Canadian fellow. Parham got along well with all his customers except Ezra, whom he enjoyed needling, especially about his rattlesnake farm. Ezra stopped to see him before he left Little Cataloochee. “Didn't even argue with me over the price,” Ezra said, grinning. “You'd think he'd have had better sense than that.”

Parham wiped his hands on his apron. “Well, Banks, don't I get a finder's fee since I sent him over? A nickel maybe?”

Ezra's face clouded. “Finder's fee. Shit. I don't know why I even come in here. Only mail I ever get is circulars.” He turned on his boot heel and slammed the screen door.

Ezra got to Waynesville about three, in a drizzle that started at the Frog Level bridge just before the depot. He felt in his saddlebag for his slicker. A man on the depot porch, the left side of his face the color of a strawberry, raised his hand at Ezra but was not greeted in return. At the top of the hill up Depot Street, Ezra saw two automobiles parked behind the courthouse. “Must be damn lawyers,” he harrumphed. The clock atop the building said four-thirty. Ezra knew that wasn't right but in the rain could not tell the exact time. He considered getting his slicker out but decided it was more important to hurry.

In the courthouse basement his eyes strained to adjust to the dim light of electric wall sconces. “Darkest place I ever saw,” he muttered. He made out “Register of Deeds” lettered in white on the frosted glass of a door, “George C. Haynes” toward the bottom of the panel.

The register of deeds was in Clyde at a meeting, and his secretary, Miss Smathers, took a while to convince Ezra she could take care of recording the deed. It was nearly dark when Ezra left clutching his official receipt and cursing rain that had by then turned cold and copious. He briefly thought of getting a room, then put his slicker on and headed for home.

He and his mule, Old Huldy, made a sorry pair coming back over the mountain, slogging for hours, like drenched fugitives bound for a grim encounter. At three in the morning they got to the barn. In spite of his slicker Ezra was soaked and his hat brim had come unmoored in front. He kept dry matches in a box near the lantern. By its light he checked his pocket—the ink on his receipt had bled clean off the paper. He wadded the paper and stomped it into the dust of the barn floor, then fed and watered Old Huldy.

On the front porch he threw the soggy hat on the floor and rattled the doorknob. He turned his soaked pockets inside out but the only key was to his desk, where his door keys, tied by a rawhide string, were locked.

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